


How to Learn to Train Your Dragon

by Reyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - How to Train Your Dragon Fusion, Dragon Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyn/pseuds/Reyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sick of being told he's too young to help fight off and kill dragons in the town's constant raids. So he comes up with the bright idea to catch one, study it, and turn it into his personal little practice dummy. Because maybe then his dad will let him help.</p><p>What he didn't expect was to capture himself a dragon that not only had enough intelligence to rival his own, but also held the ability to shape shift as well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commissioned story :)

If anyone were to ask Stiles, Beacon Hills was a completely sucky place to live. Not because of the constant dragon raids, no. Those were actually pretty awesome. At least, Stiles assumed they were awesome. What sucked about Beacon Hills was that under the town’s law, no one under the age of eighteen was allowed to participate in defending their land.

 It was a stupid rule, in Stiles’ opinion. From the moment the children were able to walk, a weapon was put in their hands and they underwent training on how to kill a dragon while guarding their ever-endangered food supply of sheep, cattle, and chicken. Stiles was told they used to farm pigs, but pigs are smart creatures and when the attacks started happening with startling regularity, the pigs took to the woods, evolved into something no one should trifle with, and hadn’t been back since.

The problem was, after being _told_ for fifteen years how to fight a dragon, Stiles wanted to go out and _try_. But—

“You’re too young.”

Those words made Stiles want to throw himself on top of the workbench and roll around in sheer frustration.

“Come on, Deaton, you’ve said so yourself, I’m twice as smart as most of my friends!”

Deaton paused in his hammering to raise a skeptical brow at his apprentice. “And what do you think that says about your friends?”

It took a moment for Stiles to catch the insult. “Oh, ha ha. The man’s got jokes.” He scowled at Deaton’s smirk and turned to lean against the bench, petulantly crossing his arms. “What if I wore a mask, so no one knew it was me—”

“No.”

“Why not? Age has nothing to do with skill! If you can’t see my face, you’d have no idea I was sixteen!”

Deaton eyed the boy’s flailing limbs with skepticism, but wisely chose not to comment on Stiles’ unique body language as a dead giveaway to his immaturity. Instead, he put down his instruments, pulled off his thick gloves, and stepped away from his anvil.

“Stiles, you’re not ready.”

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffed. “Because they’ve taught us everything they can in school and now we’re stuck with two years of physical training, which is a bit hard to do when you can’t practice against the one thing you’re meant to be fighting. Am I the only one around here who sees the huge hole in that logic?”

Deaton shook his head and placed his hands on Stiles’ shoulders in an effort to calm him down. “I understand your frustration, but allowing children to join our fight after only showing them the theory is the equivalent of a death sentence. You all understand the dragons’ body structures, their strengths, their weaknesses, their cries, how they hunt, how they kill, but all that information would disappear the instant you face one head on. You are cocky right now with all that knowledge filling your brain. The next step is to train your body to take the instinctive steps needed to ensure you live long enough to implement what you know.”

It made sense, but Stiles wasn’t buying it. “That’s great, but so far, all my body is learning is how to flinch the second Jackson makes any sort of movement towards me.”

Deaton laughed and moved to pull back on his gloves. “Jackson, yes. If we were to ever make an exception to the age limit, he would probably be it.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open, but before he could protest, the town’s sirens went off and Deaton’s smile disappeared.

“Grab the crossbows.”

+

As far as most of his peers were concerned, Stiles was practically gifted thanks to landing an apprenticeship with the Beacon Hills’ blacksmith. Because now, rather than being forced underground with the rest of the children, he had the privilege to be out where the action was. To see the dragons move. To watch them die.

And yeah, at first Stiles completely agreed with them. He landed the perfect job to keep his ever busy mind occupied what with keeping up the conditions of the town’s weapon supply, and helping to make more weapons, and maybe even inventing _new_ weapons!

But no, that wasn’t how it worked at all. Yeah, there was a lot of weapon and armor work to be done, but Stiles was stuck starting with the basics, which was keep the fire hot, sharpening the practice swords for school, molding out tools for the carpenters, and weighing his arms down with as many crossbows he could fit on them and passing them out to every man and woman who demanded one during the raids.

He barely made it ten feet out into the street before he was mobbed.

“Go! Go! Go—ow! That’s my arm! Careful! You’re welcome!” he shouted as the crowd dispersed, leaving him with one crossbow dangling on his wrist and another dropped at his feet.

Bending to pick up the weapon on the ground, he jogged to where his father was normally stationed, just as the sky lit above him lit up with a streak of fire as a large Tonguetwister swooped passed, a sheep wrapped tightly in its tongue. Unable to help himself, Stiles raised one of the crossbows, did his best to take aim while running, and fired.

He missed by quite a ways and the dragon continued to fly on.

Cursing his luck, Stiles continued on until he reached the tall stone wall that lined the cows’ pasture.

“Dad? Dad!” Stiles spotted his father and raced to him. “What’s happening? I saw one with a sheep already!”

Without answering, the town’s sheriff took the offered crossbow from his son and managed to hit the oncoming dragon right in the eye, successfully causing it to stop in its charge and flee instead.

“Greenberg was late in returning with his assigned flock,” the sheriff answered, reloading the crossbow with an arrow from a nearby quiver. “The Argents went out to fetch him, but there’s a good chance we lost every last sheep out there.”

Ducking against the wall, Stiles’ eyes were wide. Greenberg’s flock held the most lambs, meaning they had just lost a sizeable portion of food for the upcoming year.

“Vorpent!” someone screamed, and immediately following was a thunderous crash as a large section of the east wall crumbled under the dragon’s weight as it perched on the stones.

Stiles threw himself to the side the second the Vorpent’s tail rose, as did nearly everyone in the area. Only one man continued to shoot at the creature, and he found a swift death as the tail lashed out and impaled him straight through. With a flick, he was dislodged and thrown aside in favor of one of the cattle.

Cursing, the sheriff scrambled to his feet and grabbed his shotgun, taking aim and giving chase.

Stiles wanted to watch, but he found his attention drawn to the man who had been stabbed, his body crumpled on the ground directly below. Stiles recognized him as one of the boys from last summer’s graduating class. Horrifyingly enough, he still seemed to have some life in him. His body seized and shook, and froth poured from his mouth and gaping stomach wound. Stiles looked away as the boy’s body began to bend and twist into unnatural angles as the poison coursing through his system took hold of the muscles, forcing them to contract until bones snapped.

A loud roar sounded from directly overhead, and Stiles looked up to find a Sniffer Dragon hovering above the pasture, eyeing the crumbled wall with interest. Their weakness had been announced.

Scrambling to his feet, Stiles peered over the ledge to find a horde of both dragons and humans heading their way in a race to see who would reach the cattle first.

“Stiles!” Stiles’ head whipped around at the sound of his father’s voice. “Stiles, get out of here!”

Stiles looked out again, trying to mentally calculate who would reach them first. “But I can help, dad! Let me help!”

His arm was roughly grabbed and yanked towards the stairs. “No! You get down those stairs before it’s too crowded and head to the well to help put out the fires!”

Obeying the order without question, Stiles made it to the ground level just as the cavalry arrived and flooded up the staircase. He didn’t dare look back in his race back to town, keeping an eye out for the fires that looked the strongest.

There was a bucket hooked on a fence surrounding someone’s yard and Stiles grabbed it, filling it from a nearby trough as he ran towards the nearest light source. It was a stupid move, seeing as how every building standardly came with a filled trough, but Stiles figured it was better safe than sorry. Unfortunately, the sound of water sloshing in the bucket covered a low whistling sound that was rapidly approaching.

The corner supply store up ahead erupted in an explosion of fire and rubble, and Stiles found himself thrown back by the force. Wasting no time in recovering, Stiles scrambled to his hands and knees and shook his head clear. He stared in shock at the burning remains ahead of him. Only one type of dragon was capable of such an attack, and that even then, most people argued it was either extinct or nothing but a legend.

“Night…Oh my God! Night Fury!!” Stiles shouted in warning, crawling forward when his feet refused to pick him up fast enough. “Night Fury!!”

He ran to the nearest trough. “Guys, there’s a Ni--gnh!!”

A strong blow against the back of his shoulders sent him headfirst into the water.

He came up sputtering and coughing, whirling around to see what the hell had pushed him. The fluttering of leathery wings drew his gaze skyward, where he spotted a small Sniffer, perched on a roof, staring down at him. Its mouth was parted into an eerie parody of a grin, its teeth shadowed against the low fire that kindled in the back of its throat.

“What the hell?”

When the dragon continued to simply watch him rather than attack him, Stiles picked up his bucket, emptied it out, and threw it at the creature. It squawked loudly in protest and took flight, despite the bucket merely hitting the wall below. Stiles immediately ducked and reached for the dagger strapped to his shin, but the Sniffer flew off rather than sounding any sort of alarm.

Climbing out of the trough, Stiles was forced to strip off his protective dragon hide jacket, seeing as how it now seemed to weigh a ton now that it was soaked through.

He retrieved his bucket just as others began to arrive with buckets of their own, quick to help put out the remaining flames that were already dwindling throughout the ruins of the supply store.

The attack seemed to be over; the dragons never stayed for long. They merely swept through for a quick pass of destruction, food, and mayhem. It was almost as if Beacon Hills just had the misfortune of lying in their migration path. At least, that would be the theory if numerous other towns across the land didn’t have the same problem.

Stiles wiped his wet bangs back from his forehead as solemn pats on the backs went around for reassurance that everyone did the best they could. A smile started to form on Stiles’ face as a hand met his shoulder, but the pat immediately turned into a crushing grip of worry.

“Where is your jacket?!” his captor demanded, forcing him to turn and face them. “You know the law! Never remove – Stiles?? God damn it, what the _hell_ are you doing out here?!”

“Uh…well, I was running to the shelter, but then I saw the –” a hand rose to wave at the remains before them. “And my running sort of turned into helping instead.”

The answer seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, but a few faces remained stubbornly strict.

“And what exactly were you doing before heading to the shelter?”

Stiles’ mouth fell open, and he did his best to look completely offended by the question. Unfortunately, no one seemed to buy the act and he was shoved to the side.

“Get to the shelter. Expect a stern word from your father later.”

Shoulders slumped, Stiles walked over to where his jacket had been discarded, pulling a face as he picked it up. It was already starting to rot and would need to be tossed. His dad probably wouldn’t be open to suggestions of a more stylish design if everyone followed through on the threat of tattling. Jerks.

“What could have caused the building to actually explode?” a woman asked from amongst those examining the damages.

For a moment, Stiles thought about keeping his mouth shut. If they couldn’t figure it out, then they were too stupid to – he stopped that thought with a frustrated sigh. They weren’t his enemy; Beacon Hills was only allowed one enemy.

“It was a Night Fury,” he announced over his shoulder. He turned when several gasps indicated people were actually listening to him.

“A Night Fury? Are you sure? You saw it?”

Stiles opened his mouth to affirm, yes, he was sure, only to realize that no, he hadn’t seen it.

“I—uh—I saw the blue ball of flame right as it hit the supply store and made everything explode.”

“But you didn’t see the dragon itself?”

Stiles threw his arms out to the side. “No! Alright? Night Furies are the only dragon with a long distance attack! So it’s not like it was sitting on the roof and hocking a loogie down the chimney for me to watch!”

Looks of disproval at his vulgar imagery were given and the crowd began to turn away to continue with what they were doing.

“What other species do you know of that can do this?” he was ignored. “No, seriously! I’m eager to learn!”

“Go home, Stiles.”

Throwing his ruined jacket on the ground, Stiles turned and stomped off.

+

“I’m telling you, there is something seriously wrong with the people in this town.”

Stiles’ best friend shrugged. “Can you blame them? I mean, Night Furies are kind of…not real.”

“They’re not not real, Scott, they’re just super rare and terrifying enough that people would rather think they’re a myth instead of simply extinct,” Stiles complained, keeping his eyes on the spar before them.

Scott followed his example. “Well, what did your dad have to say?”

Stiles snorted and crossed his arms against the anger the memory caused. “That without solid proof, he wasn’t going to cause everyone to panic by making such an announcement. The place _exploded_! It blew up with enough force to throw me back! There’s nothing else out there that we know of that can do that!”

A whistle blew, causing both boys to jump.

“Stilinski!”

Stiles turned to the instructor. “Yes, Coach?”

“Since you’re so uneager to learn by observation, maybe you’d prefer a more hands on lesson?”

“That’s okay, Coach, I’m good here.”

The whistle blew again. “Get your ass in the ring, Stilinski!”

Heaving out a sigh, Stiles stepped forward to the weapons rack and fit a wooden shield around his left arm and picked up a sword in the other. As he walked toward the center of the wide ring, he found himself facing the arrogant smirk of none other than Jackson Whittemore.

“You planning on putting in some effort to it this time, Stilinski?” Jackson teased, his eyebrows rising in challenge.

“What’s the point?” Stiles murmured, dropping into the ready stance. “You’re just going to pound me into a bloody pulp even harder.”

“Ready?” Coach asked, bringing the whistle to his lips.

His voice faded out as Stiles took a deep breath, his eyes locked on his opponent. His mind, however, drifted back to the night before, and the Vorpent that had killed the young man – Stiles had learned his name was Camden.

The Vorpent had been facing Camden head on, but its tail had darted in from the side, swinging in to be a frontal attack at the last possible second. A move like that could get between a person and their shield no problem unless they held their shield tightly against their body and at an angle.

Stiles adjusted his shield just as Coach blew the whistle.

Jackson charged forward, and Stiles did his best to do the same, but quickly found he couldn’t attack nearly as effectively with his shield protecting him so closely. In no time at all, Jackson knocked away his sword and had Stiles on the ground, yielding.

“Stilinski, what the hell was that?” Coach demanded, stomping forward. “That was pathetic, even for you!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Stiles apologized, rolling onto his side and using his shield as a prop to help him to his feet. “I was trying out a new defense strategy.”

“What.”

Despite the phrase sounding nothing like a question, Stiles felt compelled to answer.

“Well, last night, I watched a Vorpent kill Camden, and I figured the best way to counter an attack like that would be to, well, block it like this.” He held up his shield in demonstration. “But then I wasn’t counting on it hindering my sword fighting abili—”

Stiles was cut off as Jackson rudely shoved him.

“You’re not fighting a Vorpent, Stilinski, you’re fighting me,” Jackson complained. “And how am I supposed to get better if you’re too busy testing out strategies that lower your ability to fight properly?”

“Look, I’m trying to help, alright! If I can study how they move—”

“Just because you get to see them in action doesn’t make you the expert!”

Stiles stood his ground. “Yeah, but it makes me the better authority.”

He could see Jackson’s fist curling in the corner of his eye, but before it could be raised, Coach stepped in.

“Look, Stilinski, I get what you’re trying to do. But Jackson isn’t a dragon. None of the kids here,” Coach turned, his arms spread wide to encompass the class, “are dragons.”

“Yeah, but—”

“While figuring out how to move against them is great,” Coach continued, “it’s not going to do you any practical good when your opponents don’t move like dragons. In fact, the only way to make your idea work, is to go out and catch a dragon.”

Stiles’ eyes widened.

“It’s not happening, kiddo, get your mind out of the clouds.” Coach whirled around to address the class. “Dragons are too wild, too smart, too unpredictable, and too dangerous to be caught. When you’re out there, your best bet is to kill them. If you simply maim one and let it get away, you better believe it will not only be back, but will remember your face as well.”

Stiles had stopped listening. Already, his mind was swirling with the possibilities. To catch a dragon was…it was…brilliant! Yes, there would be several setbacks, such as where to hold it, or how to keep it sedated just enough so it wouldn’t be a complete danger in school, but overall, it was the perfect solution to getting everyone properly trained so that none of them would meet the same fate as Parrish.

+

So, it turned out the biggest setback to catching a dragon was figuring out how to _actually_ catch it. All of their existing weapons were not only designed to maim and ultimately kill, but also held the problem of being small and light to allow for quick mobility and agility.

Stiles tapped his pen against his notebook in thought.

He already had several pages filled with diagrams that depicted ways to injure a dragon to help lead to its capture, but every single one ended with a nearly-dead dragon as a result. Because if you injured a dragon in the air, and it would simply fly away. So first, one would have to fill its wings with holes to force it to the ground. But that only put everyone closer to all the dangerous bits. Breaking its legs would only make it go berserk more people would probably die from its thrashing tail and head as it spewed fire or poisonous spit everywhere.

No, he would have to get it in one shot. Something that would tangle in its legs or wings immediately, to help render the dragon too confused to attack straight away, which would allow a group of people to work quickly to incapacitate it.

Stiles sketched out a piece of rope with iron balls tied to the ends. Launched with enough force, a bola would tangle perfectly, but it would still leave too much of the dragon open, and they couldn’t really spare the manpower during the raids for focused attacks.

Stiles crossed out the drawing.

What they needed was a bola net. A net with weighted irons on the end and it would not only catch the dragon, but possibly force its body into an awkward angle once the force of the irons tangled the rope ends together. Stiles straightened in his seat. It was perfect! From there, they could knock the dragon out, stick it in a cage, study its weaknesses, then employ that knowledge so that cadets could safely fight against them in training!

Stiles threw down his pen triumphantly and stretched. The next problem would be inventing something large enough that could shoot a net that size into the air with enough force to bring down a dragon.

Picking back up his pen, Stiles hunched over his desk and continued to sketch. Page after page filled up with discarded ideas; some fantastical and completely improbable, some just frustratingly shy of being a success. He had no idea how much time had passed, but was given an inkling of an idea when a hand came down on his shoulder, startling him into falling out of his chair.

“I know you’re all about working the system, but a word of advice: You need to be employed here for several years before I start lending a sympathetic ear as to why you might be disregarding your duties.”

Stiles looked up and was surprised to find his employer’s face was nearly enveloped in the darkness that permeated the room. He glanced to the window to find that dusk had fallen.

“Uh, sorry.” Pulling himself to his feet, Stiles looked down at his notebook and reached out to shut it, figuring now was probably a good time for a break.

“What was it that had you so focused?” Deaton asked while turning to lead Stiles to the storage area of the shop.

Stiles took a deep breath, but something stopped him from fully admitting just what his plans were.

“Oh…you know, just homework. Or…study work.” Stiles shrugged off Deaton’s skeptical stare. “I sort of got my ass handed to me today during training, so I’m working my frustrations out with theory concepts.”

Deaton accepted the answer without question and moved to light the lamps, illuminating the numerous broken and damaged weapons from yesterday’s battle that still had yet to face repairs.

Stiles’ shoulder’s sagged. “Ah. Yeah, I guess I should probably…get to work.”

“If you plan on going home any time tonight…yeah, you probably should.”

Despite the light reprimand, Deaton helped Stiles move the weapons into more workable piles within the workshop.

Wasting no time in getting to work, Stiles picked up a broken dagger and mechanically began to remove it from its hilt so that the remaining metal bits could be melted down and made into a new weapon.

For nearly an hour, the two men worked together in silence, sorting through the work of what could be repaired, what was still salvageable for new weapons, and what could be used as shrapnel lining for rooftops to stop dragons from perching during attacks.

Pulling a bola from the pile, Stiles snorted as he noticed the only thing wrong with it was that the rope had been chewed through. Despite the blacksmith title, people still had the gall to turn in items for repair that they could easily fix themselves.

Deeming it a waste of his time, he tossed the weapon aside, frowning at how light the clunking sound was when it hit the floor. The idea he had for his net would need weights at least ten times heavier. And something that heavy would be nearly impossible to move.

“Hey.” Stiles hesitated, despite hearing the hammer stop as Deaton waited for him to continue. “If I wanted to make a weapon against the dragons…one that was a lot heavier than any of these, would that be pointless because I would lose maneuverability?” He turned to see his mentor’s reaction.

“Well, that would depend,” Deaton responded after a thoughtful moment. “If it were truly heavy enough to hinder your movements, then yes. But if the problem is more bulk than weight, you could perhaps have something to assist you with moving it. Like wheels.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Wheels!” He made an aborted move toward the other room. “That’s—!”

Deaton rolled his eyes and waved him off. “Go. You obviously have much greater things in mind than mindless work.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes peering intently out the window for the seventh time that night, Stiles tried to turn it into a passing glance when he noticed Deaton staring at him suspiciously.

The hammer in the blacksmith’s hand was put aside. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Deaton asked patiently.

Gaze flickering to the corner, where a large, lumpy _something_ was hidden beneath a canvas covering and several layers of broken weapons, Stiles shook his head. “No. Just…” He looked back to the window and made a halfhearted gesture towards it. “Keeping an eye on the sky.”

In the last five months, there had only been three attacks. As far as Stiles was concerned, this meant one was due any day now. Apparently, Deaton felt the same way as the tongs joined the hammer so he could stand by Stiles at the window.

“Did you know, the longest Beacon Hills has ever gone without a dragon raid is sixty-two days?” Deaton asked, looking up at the star-studded sky. “That was a little over one hundred years ago. The townspeople then had started to hope that their days of terror were over until they tried to expand the trade routes. It was then that they discovered the reason for their long period of peace.”

Stiles nodded. He knew of the tale. “The dragons had been focusing their attentions on one of the neighboring towns; destroying everything there because they had tried to wipe out the dragons’ nesting grounds to put an end to the raids.”

Stiles hated the story. It was made worse thanks to the jubilant entries in Beacon Hills’ Annuals in the weeks before the discovery. Clear skies of a gentle blue no one had ever even imagined before. Vegetation being left to pick when ripe and tasting so sweet with juices that people wept with joy. Local game wandering close enough to town for hunting parties to not even be gone for a day before returning with food.

They finally had enough to make a decent experimental trade worth the trip to new neighboring villages. But rather than finding a town in a similar bountiful state, they discovered dead fields, saturated with the poisonous spit of Scauldrons. Piles of rubble that had once been sturdy buildings -- possibly brought down gargles of Gronckles. And bodies. The bodies had been the worst. Contorted, bloated, shredded, impaled, broken, boiled, ravaged apart all in manners that could be identified back to nearly every known species of dragon; not a single man, woman, or child had been spared.

What made the story odd was the fact that there wasn’t a hint of a fire anywhere. It was as if the dragons didn’t want their smoke alerting anyone to come to the townspeople’s aid. Not that anyone would have. The usual raids were troublesome, but generally manageable for towns to take care of themselves. But what had happened at Hill Valley went above and beyond, earning the event the title of a deliberate massacre.

An investigation of Hill Valley’s Annuals told them the townspeople had discovered the location of the dragon’s nesting grounds and had launched a successful attack against them. The celebration had lasted three weeks, with the heads of some of the dragons decorating various bonfires.

The final entry told of a group of unknown travelers spotted approaching the village, whom would probably arrive by the morrow. Plans of goods to trade and stories to tell had been drawn up, and the entry closed with a simple “ _At long last, mankind has the opportunity to flourish, as is our right._ ”

It was a bleak tale that squashed the hope of the people and taught Stiles and his peers at a young age that bravado was the quickest way to kill everyone you loved.

Luckily, Stiles knew he wasn’t brave. He believed himself to be practical, and his practicality stated that if he wanted to stand a chance fighting off dragons, he needed one as a practice dummy.

“The dragons take things personally,” Deaton stated, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts. “We should be grateful the attacks have been so few and far between. It means they hold no quarrel with us.”

He gave Stiles a pat on the shoulder and headed back to work.

Stiles snorted. “I’ll agree with that when they stop terrorizing us altogether.” His eyes scanned the star-studded sky one last time before moving away from the window and back to his duties.

+

The distant echo of a roar had Stiles snapping his eyes open. Childhood fears had taught him to wait a moment to see if the sound happened again before launching himself out of bed, screaming for his father.

The choice to either do that or fall peacefully back to sleep was taken away by the darkened figure of the sheriff, standing in his doorway, staring out the window.

“Dad?”

Before he could get a response, the town’s alarm went off, the sound nearly drowning out another furious roar.

Stiles rolled out of bed, quickly forcing his feet into his boots as his dad tossed his new jacket on the floor next to him.

“Get next door. Help Martha with the twins. Those three are your priority, got it?” the sheriff ordered, plucking a barrage of weapons off the wall.

Stiles stood, accepting the small wrist shooter and strapping it on. “Yeah. Be safe?”

His dad turned and pulled him into a strong, one armed hug. “Be safe.”

Guilt shot through Stiles, making him fully aware of just what he was planning to do as soon as Martha and her children were delivered safely to the shelter. He hugged his dad tight, knowing this could be the last time they might see each other alive before separating to carry out their individual missions.

+

The wheels were uneven. Of all the _fucking_ things to screw up on, he had to give his contraption uneven wheels. Sticking to the shadows became an easy task when he kept wheelbarrowing into walls.

The town was in disarray with so many people being shocked awake from the dead of slumber. A good third of them were limping, having forgotten to put shoes on before dashing out the door to defend the livestock and fields.

Thankfully, with everyone only 60% awake and 100% focused on the sky and any small fires, Stiles was mostly left alone as he struggled to roll his oversized device up the hill next to one of the lookout towers.

There wasn’t nearly as much action going on over here. All the farms were to the north of town in an effort to keep as much of Beacon Hills as intact as possible. This meant Stiles only saw the occasional stray dragon fly by, lazy with its prey already in its mouth.

Working fast to open and set up his canon, Stiles locked the wheels in place, grabbed the handles, bent low to look through his scope, and took aim.

“Easy targets,” he muttered, tracking a Nadder with its claws full of rabbits, slowly circling through the sky as it waited for some of its friends.

Just before his finger could pull the trigger, he noticed something moving beyond the dragon, blocking out the stars. Its flight was more streamlined and faster than any dragon Stiles knew of, and for a moment he forgot about the Nadder, curious as to what else was out there.

His question was answered a moment later when a bright light shot out from the dark shape, emitting a high-pierced whistling noise that ended in an explosion upon contact with the ground below.

Stiles’ jaw dropped. Holy shit, that was the Nightfury! That—!

Without further thought, he readjusted his aim, tightened his canon’s tension for a further shot, tracked the Nightfury’s path, and pulled the trigger.

A punch to the chest threw Stiles back from the recoil of the canon. Eyes watering in pain and unable to breathe, Stiles rolled onto his side and tilted his head down just in time to see something large fall into the trees in the distance. Judging by the continuous sound of breaking branches and roaring, there was a very high chance Stiles had managed to snatch his prey.

Struggling for breath, Stiles slowly pushed himself to his feet and staggered in place, his gaze locked on the broken treetops. He did it. He caught a dragon. He caught a—!

Fists pumping into the air, Stiles discovered his lungs weren’t quite up to capacity yet and he found himself collapsing back to the ground. He remained there for several minutes, allowing himself to catch his breath and figure out just what he had to do next.

+

What he had to do next involved a very long trek through a very dark forest. Predawn was just starting to lighten the air when Stiles finally saw traces of something very large having disrupted the forest’s landscape.

He headed along a downward slope, following the broken branches, displaced boulders, and upturned soil until it dropped off into a steep basin.

Gripping a nearby tree for support, Stiles peered over the edge, his eyes searching. Down below there was a pond, several large rocks, and something very small struggling in his oversized net.

He squinted, trying to figure out just what the hell he had caught. It certainly wasn’t a dragon. There was no tail and the movements were all wrong and—His eyes widened. That was a human!

With a curse, Stiles let go of the tree and stumbled his way down into the basin.

“Sorry! Shit! I am so sorry!!” He ran into a boulder and used it to brace himself as he pulled his dagger free from his boot. “I have no idea how this even happened, but I – whoa! Whoa. Okay…”

The flailing man froze when Stiles approached, crouched down on all fours, eyes warily on the dagger in Stiles’ raised fist.

Stiles took a cautious step forward, and was met with the man crawling several steps back.

“It’s okay,” Stiles reassured. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

He slowly lowered himself to one knee, and did his best to ignore the way lips peeled back to reveal a perfect set of teeth when the dagger lowered. The man had a very piercing stare and Stiles did his absolute best to avoid eye contact out of a slight fear for his life.

As he sawed through the ropes, Stiles kept looking out and around, convinced his dragon was still nearby. Despite being with another person, he felt the itch of danger between his shoulder blades. Was it possible the Nightfury he caught had somehow managed to land near this hermit and threw the net off itself and onto the unfortunate man before running off?

“Listen, we have to get out of here quick, alright? Dragons are known to carry grudges, and I have a really bad feeling that Nightfury is still around. Do you have a place to lie low for the next few days or should I bring you back to my village?”

The man didn’t answer. He just continued to watch Stiles work with unnerving intensity.

“Oookay, not one to talk to strangers.” The rope snapped and Stiles moved on to the next section. “Well, you can trust me. I’m the sheriff’s son. Name’s Stiles.” He risked a glance and saw he was being watched more with curiosity than the previous hostility. “You got a name?”

Silence.

Stiles shrugged and went back to keeping an eye on their surroundings. “Otherwise I’m going to call you Angry Hermit when I introduce you back in town. Although that will probably lead to my dad asking why I chose that name and I’ll have to admit to being the direct reason your disgruntlement and an explanation as to why.” Another rope snapped. “Could I please have your name? If only to avoid public embarrassment?”

The man eyed him for a moment longer before muttering through gritted teeth. “D’rkk.”

“Derek?” Stiles frowned thoughtfully. “That’s an unusual name. Are you from further inland or maybe more down s—”

Another rope snapped and Derek sprung into action, darting out of the jaggedly cut hole and shoving Stiles to the ground.

Stiles winced and coughed at the weight on his already bruised chest as Derek pinned him down, his fingers curled into claws and digging into Stiles’ collarbone.

“Man, what do I have to do to get a simple ‘thank you’ in life?” Stiles demanded, doing his best to relax his body to come off as nonthreatening as possible. “I’m going to assume things again and say you have some heavy trust issues.” He glanced down to glare at the man, only to have his eyes widen instead. “Aaaand you’re also really naked.” His gaze immediately snapped skyward. “This just got really awkward.”

Stiles had the occasional fantasy of being with someone who took charge in the bedroom. Or in the fields. Or even in the woods like they were now. But never with someone so well endowed.

Actually, now that he thought about it, the endowment part usually remained a bit of a mystery when it came to the men he liked to think about from time to time. But now that he had a basis for comparison aside from his own penis…

Above him Derek froze. His nostrils flared and with a confused frown, he glanced down at Stiles’ neck and further down at his crotch before slowly backing off.

Stiles remained where he was for a moment, tapping his fingers against the mulch beneath him as he willed his heart rate to slow down before he died of embarrassment.

“For the record,” he felt the need to voice, “I’m not the village idiot.”

Derek snorted, crawling back to the net. “Idiot.”

Stiles scowled up at the clouds, wondering just what he had done in the history of ever to deserve this constant treatment he got in life.

+

“Uh…his name is Derek?”

The incredulous look didn’t disappear from the sheriff’s face. If anything, it only hardened as he transferred his attention to his son, causing Stiles to wince.

He knew how bad this looked. Derek’s resting face was both intense and suspicious, and he had this overall twitchiness about him. Add to that, he was wrapped in the remains of the net for modesty’s sake and cradling the iron weights like they were his most precious possession.

In short, it looked like Stiles had brought home some other village’s idiot.

But it was hardly his fault! He had tried to offer his jacket, but the second Derek touched it, he seized up and practically threw it back at Stiles, disgust written all over his face. He had looked ready to attack Stiles, as if the very suggestion of concealing his admittedly gorgeous body was an actual crime against nature.

Stiles did his best to argue that while Derek was free to do whatever he liked in his hermit life, if he intended to stay within the safety of Beacon Hills for the next few days, then he would have to learn the concept of clothing. Derek’s response had been to drape himself in the net.

“And just where is Derek from?” the sheriff asked, his gaze slowly going back to Derek.

Stiles waited a beat to see if Derek would answer for himself. When that didn’t happen, he spoke up.

“I think he’s been camped out in the woods. For years, at least.”

The sheriff scowled, and crossed his arms. A bad sign. “And just how did you come across him when you were supposed to be at the shelter and then at school?”

“Uh…” Stiles’ eyes widened in slight panic. There was no way he could admit to inventing a contraption to capture a dragon that backfired and caught him a hapless man instead. He would be grounded, pulled from school, and probably reassigned to work inside the shelter for life. “Hey! Did you notice that he’s hurt? Because I did. I’m pretty sure he’s in severe pain.”

There was no visible wound, but Derek walked with a slight limp, and had this odd habit of not adjusting his path quickly enough to avoid bumping into things. Stiles had no idea if that was just the way Derek was or the result of being captured and maybe even trampled on by an enraged dragon.

The sheriff looked fully ready to start yelling at his son, but stopped and turned back to Derek. “ _Are_ you hurt?” he asked, putting his duty before what he probably considered a family obligation.

Derek stared at him for a moment before his head jerked in a single nod. Then he surprised Stiles by actually talking.

“I would…appreciate it if I were allowed sanctuary. At least, until I figure out what to do from here.”

The sheriff’s gaze shifted from stern to sympathetic. “Do you have any family nearby?” When Derek took too long to come up with an answer, the sheriff elaborated. “Parents? Siblings? Cousins? Friends?”

Almost hesitantly, Derek shook his head.

“Christ,” the sheriff cursed. “Where are you hurt, son?”

“My…” Derek trailed off with a frown and reached around, his hand hovering just above his lower back.

Stiles tried not to look. He really did. But once he had leaned back to see, his sight dropped down a few inches and remained there.

“I don’t see anything wrong.”

The sheriff smacked him upside the head.

+

So, it turned out something _was_ wrong in the form of an oddly shaped bruise right on the dip-then-swell where back met butt.

Stiles’ gaze hadn’t drifted since the net had been dropped to reveal it all of ten minutes ago.

“Are we—” he cleared his throat, adjusted the positioning of his jacket in his lap, and tried again. “Are we sure that isn’t a birthmark? Or some kind of out-of-control mole?”

The doctor poked at it, causing Derek to let out a wounded yip before flinching violently away. He then immediately retaliated by whirling around and shoving the doctor into the nearest counter.

“I can’t say I’ve seen anything exactly like it,” the doctor admitted, raising his hands to reassure that he was done examining it. “But I would say that he’s damaged his tailbone. As for the scarring on his skin, my best guess would be that it’s a burn. Did you actually see the dragon that attacked him?”  
  
Stiles sucked in a breath and studiously avoided Derek’s stare. The official made-up story was that Stiles was on his way to the shelter when he saw a dragon in the distance swoop down repeatedly. Since this was odd behavior, Stiles decided to check it out and found Derek tangled in a net and only just regaining consciousness.  
  
“Uh, I did not,” Stiles admitted. “All I really saw was its silhouette; and even that was a bit of a blob.”  
  
Derek had yet to back him up on any part of the tale, but he also hadn’t bothered to refute any of it, either. Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that Derek somehow _knew_ the net came from him and everything was thus his fault, but until accusations were voiced, Stiles refused to own up to anything.  
  
“Hm. Well, I can give him some ointment for the burn, but there isn’t much I can do for a broken tailbone.” The doctor began to tidy up his supplies. “It’ll heal just fine on its own, but I recommend giving him a place to stay for a few weeks while that happens.” He glanced back at Derek. “You’re going to be uncomfortable as hell while that thing heals up, and going back to your cave, or cabin, or whatever you’ve got out in those woods isn’t the best idea.”  
  
“Whoa, wait a minute, we’re just going to trust having this stranger in our town?” Stiles’ rant froze when three pairs of eyes zeroed in on him, each one just as judgmental as the next. “What? No one else remembers the Hill Valley Massacre?”  
  
“I’m not comfortable in towns, sir.” Derek’s voice was low but strong, his gaze never leaving Stiles’.  
  
The sheriff leaned forward to smack Stiles upside the head before straightening up from his position propped against the wall.  
  
“I understand that, son. It does sometimes feel like we’ve got a giant target painted on our roofs.” He walked forward until he was standing in front of Derek. “We won’t stop you if you choose to leave, but I can promise you’ll remain safe so long as you take to the shelters should there be a raid while you’re around.”  
  
Despite the reassurance, Stiles could see clear as day that Derek was still going to say no. A part of him really wanted Derek to stay. He was unfairly good looking for someone who apparently lived out in the woods, and Stiles wouldn’t mind the eye candy and wank fodder. On the other hand, the longer Derek stayed, the more likely the truth was at coming out. And not only would he be risking Derek’s anger, but his father’s as well. What he was trying to achieve with catching an actual dragon was ten kinds of illegal.  
  
“If you stay, it will give us a chance to stock you up with new clothes and weapons,” the sheriff offered as Derek started shaking his head. “It’ll make things a bit easier for you when you head back out there, at least.”  
  
Stiles balked. “You can’t do that! What if he kills me in my sleep??”  
  
“You came to his aid, Stiles. Why the hell would he repay you with murder?”  
  
Rather than offer any reassurance, Derek simply pointed out, “I wouldn’t need a weapon to do that.”  
  
The bastard wasn’t even smirking, leaving Stiles convinced that he was dead serious.  
  
Rather than take the threat seriously, Stiles’ father burst out laughing and clapped Derek on the shoulder.  
  
And that was how Stiles found himself with a new houseguest who was under his personal care.  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: old-sterek-feels


End file.
